#fic: enigma

[thee-great-enigma]

Price would only give you the slightest hint of what you really want to see in his nudes, or around the house.

M!reader

Oh you're rock hard and want to rub against his ass for some relief? He sits down on the couch for three hours, completely ignoring you.

Oh you wanna eat him out, feel the weight of his cock on your throat? He'll walk around in sweatpants that are hanging so low on his hips that you can see the salt and pepper fringe of his happy trail and the very base of his thick cock, not that the sweatpants are hiding the outline of the pretty thing. But he swats your hand away anytime you try to touch him, walls away anytime you sit on your knees and plead for him to let you touch him because you "Need to so bad, sir, please? What have I done wrong that you won't let me touch you? Just- please? I'll be good, just please- please I need it, need you so bad sir," you whine only to be shut down again and again.

You want to fiddle with his chest whether it be playing with the soft hair or lightly pinching or sucking his nipples? He'll swat your hand away, wear a thick coat, send you pictures of anything else, make sure you can't get what you want.

And of course it makes it all the sweeter when he does finally let you have your way. But he's also busy doing his own thing, watching TV or reading a book. Bonus points if he's wearing his little reading glasses on the lower bridge of his nose to see the pages of his book or even paperwork. Since you've begged so nicely, been so good for him all day, he might as well give you a little bit of relief. When he first told you to kneel in front of him, you grinned stupidly, thinking he'd finally let you use your mouth for something other than pleading for him all day.

But instead, he shoved his foot between your thighs, shin practically crushing your cock. You let out an embarrassingly high pitched noise as pleasure and a small bit of pain rushes up your spine, making you slightly dizzy for a second. Your jaw gapes as you try to register this, grappling at his thighs for purchase. He doesn't even pay you a glance, just hooked his leg under your crotch and made sure there was enough pressure to keep you short of breath.

You give an experimental buck of your hips and when he doesn't do anything about it, you keep going, keep snapping your hips forward. You find purchase in his thighs, blunt nails digging into the plush skin as shaky gasps and moans escapes your lips. You don't mind this so much, it feels good and at least he's giving you a bit of pleasure. You just wish he'd look at you.

You whine up at him, pursing your lips and tilting your eyebrows up, murmuring into the couch cushion, "Baby please– please look at me– I'm begging you lovie, just look at me. C'mon, that book/show can't be that important"

And yet the only sort of attention his gives you is a low grumbled. "Dirty horndogs like you don't need to be looked at. Go ahead and cum, I don't care, just don't make me watch you do it."

You groan as you rub your poor abandoned cock against his leg, complaining about him being "too mean". You reached up for either the remote or the book, but he swats your hand away, again no even giving you a small flicker of attention.

Woah Enigma knows how to write!!! Yeah sorry for not being active, life has been kicking my ass and motivation is a rare visitor that only likes to come when I'm busy but this time I actually finished something!

Honorable mention, @rodolfoparras a lil gift since I may or may not have participated in the train me gnome and a few others ran through your husband

[anonymous-dentist]

Or: Somebody is attacking members of the Federation of Heroes, and Cellbit is, for once, not the killer

(TW: Blood, Self Harm [by technicality])

----

Cellbit first hears about the attacks from Bagi while they're getting lunch together for the first time in almost a month.

"I've just been so busy," she sighs. She looks about one insult away from slamming Cellbit's face into the table, and she looks about one wet piece of lettuce away from slamming her own face into her salad.

Cellbit hums in response. He's been busy, too. Not with police work, but photo editing is fucking hard, okay? Especially when your apartment is a fucking war zone thanks to yet another patented Richarlyson Temper Tantrum.

Only a little annoyed, Cellbit pokes at his barbecue hard enough with his fork to scrape it against the plate.

Bagi scowls and kicks Cellbit underneath the table.

Cellbit kicks Bagi back, with purpose.

"Fuck you!" she snaps, stomping down hard on his foot.

Cellbit responds by snatching her glass of water from next to her plate and turning it over above her salad.

"What?" Cellbit casually asks as Bagi starts visibly shaking with rage. "At least I'm not stabbing you this time."

"You-" Bagi cuts herself off with a frustrated groan.

She reaches across the table and steals his plate; he lets her, the meat is a bit too well-done for his tastes.

Cellbit leans back in his seat and watches her stab into the barbecue with the rage of a goddamn beast.

"Aren't you vegan?" he asks her.

"Fuck you," she tensely responds. "I don't have the patience for this today. Between you and those fucking- the Federation, I'm going to lose it."

Cellbit tenses at the mention of the Federation- the Federation of Heroes: Q City's defense against supervillains and petty criminals alike, the unofficial backer of the city's educational system and the police force and the courts, and Cellbit's unrequited worst enemy.

His nose wrinkles in distaste. "What do they want?"

"What don't they want?" Bagi sighs. "I don't see why they need us to solve this if they're in charge of literally every superhero in the city. It's just a couple of assault cases, that's it."

...Ah.

Casually- oh, so casually, Cellbit rolls his eyes and cracks a grin.

"What, is someone going around and beating up Federation guys again?" he asks. "I thought Enigma was dead."

Bagi nods, annoyance written all across her face in big red letters. "He is, I was there when he died! But freaking Foolish-"

"Oh, God, Foolish is on this case?"

"The Federation requested him specifically, but he's like-" (She screws her voice up into something approximating her coworker's.) "'Oh, no, Bagi! It's the dead guy assaulting all these Federation guys!' Like? Enigma is dead, how the hell is he still getting assault charges?"

Cellbit shrugs. "You know how Foolish is. He's probably still pissed about never actually getting to figure out Enigma's secret identity. He's just salty."

"Yeah, well. Whatever."

"Whatever," Cellbit echoes.

Bagi, somehow, looks much closer to death. She looks tired, but that's just what happens when you're stuck dealing with Cucurucho for an extended period of time; Cellbit swears he only gets sleep when Cucurucho is out of the city on official Federation business.

Now, Cellbit should probably be grilling his sister for more information. Any enemy of the Federation of Heroes is a friend of his, and he's got some contacts that he might want to hook this mystery person up with.

But.

Smile softening just slightly, Cellbit asks, "How has Empanada been? Is she doing better at this new school?"

Bagi's entire being brightens up, and she starts talking about her daughter's first day at her new school and how Empanada had the best time and how the school is actually accommodating for her disabilities and how... Well, Cellbit stops listening after a couple of minutes while he starts thinking about his own child.

Oh, Richarlyson.

He's so grounded.

-

But, funnily enough, it's while he's walking Richarlyson to school a week later that Cellbit finds the first official murder victim of Bagi's mystery assaulter.

"Oh," says Cellbit, looking down at the corpse lounging in front of his apartment building surrounded by its own brains and blood.

He blocks Richarlyson from following him out the door, much to Richarlyson's annoyance.

"What is it?" Richarlyson asks, squirming and trying to slip under Cellbit's arm. "I wanna see!"

"I think your other dads would kill me," Cellbit replies. He glances over his shoulder and down. "Can you go get my camera for me? I'll let you carry it to school."

Eyes widening excitedly, Richarlyson turns on his heel and bolts up the stairs.

As soon as he's gone, Cellbit looks back at the corpse.

It isn't a particularly good corpse. It's... messy. Too many wounds, too random. Skull fracture and cave-in seems accidental based off the location of the fracture and the location of the body; the killer probably smashed the victim's head against the building's railing and killed them just like that.

It's early in the morning. Early enough that Cellbit's street is basically empty; the Favela isn't really ever quiet, but people are smart enough to stay off the streets from sundown until sun-up. And the Federation of Heroes isn't dumb enough to try putting cameras up in a place like the Favela; it'd be a waste of money with how many times they'd have to replace them all.

So nobody is there to watch as Cellbit crouches next to the corpse and sticks a finger in the puddle of blood.

(Water holds memories, and blood is ninety-two percent water, so...)

The blood ripples like a lake after a stone was tossed into it, waves moving from Cellbit's finger outwards.

And then-

"Pai! I got it!"

Cellbit swiftly stands and turns and hides his hand in his coat pocket and smiles a thanks at Richarlyson. Damnit.

"Did you remember to lock the door behind you?" Cellbit asks.

He tries to block the view of the corpse again, but Richarlyson just barely manages to squeeze past him and out the door.

Cellbit sighs, "Don't tell your Pai Pac I let you see this. He'll kill me."

Richarlyson stares down at the body, frozen in shock.

Well. At least he isn't screaming?

Cellbit slings his camera bag over his shoulder and pulls his camera out. He's got work to do.

"Why do their brains look like that?" Richarlyson asks, nose wrinkled. "Gross."

"Brains don't look like they do in the movies," Cellbit explains, moving past Richarlyson and turning his camera on. He points it at the corpse's face, and he clicks the button. "They're a lot more... gooey. Not as solid as you'd think. It's mostly just the skull keeping them together."

"Really?"

"No, this is just kind of fucked up."

Richarlyson sits on the steps, arms crossed across his knees. He watches Cellbit work, not as disturbed as Cellbit thought he'd be. But, well, he is Richarlyson. He's seen worse than loose brains and a bit of blood. This is nothing.

"I think I know them," Richarlyson says after a bit.

Cellbit glaces up at him, camera focused on the bloody railing.

Richarlyson thinks some more, and then he nods. "Yeah, okay, so I don't know them, but I know their face! They were on the news last week! Super Hamster!"

Super... oh, right. Super Hamster, one of the Federation's newest recruits. Super low-ranked hero who spends their patrols getting cats out of trees and doing battle with a similarly low-ranked villain named Mongoose Man. Kind of stupid, but in a dumb college student way. Weird interviews. Weirder costume.

Cellbit lowers his camera and looks the corpse in the face. Super Hamster wore a mask over their eyes, but the cheeks and chin look the same...

Oh. Oh no.

God. Damnit.

-

Okay, so.

So.

Once upon a time, there was a supervillain named Enigma. He was a bit of a serial killer, but he only attacked and killed those affiliated with the Federation of Heroes: office workers, doctors, weapons suppliers. Heroes.

He did this for years. He founded the Order of Villains alongside fellow villains: the Demon and Crow Man. He killed dozens upon dozens of people, took down seemingly-endless numbers of rookie and professional heroes alike, made himself a reputation as the worst villain Q City had ever known.

And then he died.

There was an explosion during a chase he and the Federation's Sharkboy were involved in. Sharkboy was sent into early civilian retirement. Enigma was sent to his grave.

But.

Cellbit slinks his way down the alley with his camera bag slung over his shoulder. He's wearing sunglasses and a black surgical mask leftover from the last time Richarlyson was sick, and his hair is mostly hidden under a borrowed baseball cap.

Recently, according to both Bagi and the evening news, people seem to think that Enigma has done the impossible and risen from the grave. Somehow.

The thing is, the new guy doesn't kill the same way that Enigma did. Enigma used weapons the color of fresh blood. All reports from surviving victims of "Enigma" mention someone with a black sword and-slash-or a steel baseball bat.

Honestly? Cellbit wishes this new killer all the luck in the world. Going up against the Federation is risky business; that's why Cellbit retired in the first place: his family was at risk.

But, really, Cellbit can't have the rumors about Enigma's return continue to go around. They're making everyone pay too much attention to everyone else, and Cellbit really doesn't like getting stared at.

He really, really doesn't like getting stared at by Pac of all people.

So. For Pac's sake, and for Pac's sake only, Cellbit is on the prowl tonight. He's been studying up on the assault cases that Bagi has been investigating, and he's determined that nearly all of the assaults happened within a three-block circumference of the Federation's main building downtown. The outlier so far is Super Hamster, who was apparently Cellbit's upstairs neighbor before their death.

So. Downtown.

Cellbit doesn't have much on him. He has his phone and wallet, and he has a pocketknife and a pocket first aid kit. He's wearing gloves to hide his fingerprints, and because he knows better than to make skin-to-skin contact with an unknown super. (Because the new guy is a super, Cellbit can just tell; who else would have the balls to fight other supers hand-to-hand?)

And, of course, he has his camera. He needs to get proof for Pac, and then he'll get Pac to deliver the pictures to the right people.

Enigma might be dead, but "Enigma" would fit right in with the Order of Villains.

Cellbit steps out of the alley and looks up at the imposing Federation building rising above the buildings around him. It's big and white and glowing and shaped like the letter 'F' and it's fucking ugly, but it's also absolutely terrifying.

("Dispose of him.")

A helicopter lands on the Federation building's roof. Cellbit hopes it fucking crashes after takeoff.

With a sigh, Cellbit turns on his heel and starts down the street towards the building. He looks suspicious as hell, but he also has his P.I.'s license in his wallet if he needs to pull it out.

(He may not be an investigator anymore, but the license doesn't expire for another couple of years. Thanks, Federation!)

There's an itch on the back of Cellbit's neck. A mosquito, probably; it's summer, unfortunately.

Cellbit raises his hand to swat the bug away.

He blinks, and there's a figure in front of him standing beneath a streetlight in all black: hoodie, cargo shorts, what are probably athletic leggings beneath them, gas mask, and- for some reason- a medieval-style cloak with the hood pulled up.

Their hand rests on a sword hung on their side.

Cellbit doesn't so much as blink. Interesting outfit; the gas mask is a nice touch. Probably hiding a voice modulator inside it.

The sword almost seems to sing with all the blood coating it. Fresh blood, still dripping.

Slowly, Cellbit lowers his hand.

"Hey," he lamely says. "Nice cloak."

The killer's head slowly tilts to one side.

A deep, gravelly, very artificial-sounding voice drawls out, "You are not one of theirs."

Oh, so the killer is a nerd. That's cool. They'll fit in great with the Order.

Cellbit shakes his head. "No. I'm not. I'm on your side, actually. I'm just-"

The killer laughs, long and drawn out and painful sounding.

They shake their head slowly. "Don't fuck with me. No one is on my side."

Oh, so the killer is a depressed nerd. Who has obviously read a few too many comic books with how they're talking.

"No," Cellbit quickly says, "but I am. I hate those guys!"

The killer is silent. Still.

Cellbit watches them just stand there.

Swallowing a lump of anticipation in his throat, Cellbit continues:

"The Federation sucks. Everyone who works for it, or with it, deserves to die. I agree with you! But you-"

He cuts himself off with a gasp of pain as the killer vanishes in front of him and as a sharp blade stings along his ribcage from behind.

"Shit!" the killer snaps, voice modulator staticking in panic.

Cellbit staggers forward and throws himself onto the ground, careful not to crush his camera back. His sunglasses come flying off, but fuck them, he stole them, anyway.

His hand flies to his side, and it comes away bloody.

He grins. Perfect.

The killer lunges at him with his sword, aiming right for Cellbit's chest, but-

Cellbit raises his hand to catch the sword, hissing as the blade sinks into the palm of his hand. It cuts right through his glove like it was made of butter, but fuck the gloves, he stole them, anyway.

The killer freezes, confused as Cellbit drags his hand up the length of the blade. His blood drips down onto his hoodie, staining it dark.

"I told you," Cellbit growls, clenching his hand down and grinning. "I'm on your side."

And then Cellbit jerks his hand back and rolls to the side, narrowly dodging a stab to the chest. He raises his hand just in time for the blood running down his arm to ripple and start running backwards.

The killer must catch the movement, because they swing their sword towards Cellbit's wrist. Smart thought, but too late.

Steel clashes against iron with sparks and nausea as the killer's blade meets Cellbit's own.

Vaguely, Cellbit can see the killer's eyes widen through the goggles of their mask.

Cellbit swallows down a fever as he pulls the blood off of his hoodie and forms it into a tiny buckler shield. (If this other guy wants to go medieval, so will Cellbit.)

And then he pushes upwards with his blood sword with all his strength, forcing the killer to take a step backwards to keep themselves from falling on their ass.

"The cameras in this part of the city don't work," Cellbit breathes, pushing himself to his feet and desperately trying not to collapse under the weight of his own being. "You know this, but how? Only the Federation knows. They planned it this way. Job security."

"How do you know, culero?" the killer snaps.

They spin their sword once, look Cellbit over, and freeze.

Cellbit frowns. Just like before...

But then what happened before was-

Eyes widening in realization, Cellbit ducks to the side, just barely getting grazed by a sword skimming across the back of his neck.

The killer groans and tries again, this time catching the meat of Cellbit's bicep.

Cellbit groans, but he forces his blood to push the sword out of his body. It does so with a little protest, too weak to do much, but it manages.

"Enigma," the killer breathes. "You're supposed to be dead, man!"

"I am," Cellbit lowly says.

He hunches over slightly, more than a little out of practice. He holds his shield in front of himself, his sword quivering and at the ready.

"This is great!" the killer excitedly says. "Now that I know it's you..."

They lower their sword and sheathe it, practically bouncing on their toes. Their eyes glitter behind their mask, but they betray nothing.

"...we can team up!" they finish.

They reach a hand out.

Cellbit steps back warily. He holds his sword level with the killer's throat; it drips onto the sidewalk, blood splattering everywhere.

"I'm dead," Cellbit snaps. "You weren't supposed to even see me tonight! I just- oh, fuck."

He groans as a wave of heat washes over him. Pre-faint symptoms, he's close. He used to be better at this, fuck.

He staggers, both his sword and shield splashing onto the ground as he loses his hold over their forms. He braces himself against a streetlight, the same one he first saw the killer under, and he tries not to vomit.

The killer rushes towards him, gloved hands hesitating awkwardly next to his shoulders.

"You okay?" the killer asks. Even through their modulator, they sound concerned. Okay.

"I'm fine," Cellbit wheezes. He waves them off with a glare. "You just- I need proof. That it isn't me this time."

The killer stops breathing. They stop breathing for a long time.

And then they're next to Cellbit rather than in front of him holding his camera.

Cellbit's eyes widen. "Hey, no! Put that back!"

"Relax," the killer says, smile evident in their voice. "I'm getting you proof."

Cellbit's head spins. He hears the camera snap, and then he's on the ground. Oooohh, he's out of practice. (But isn't that a good thing?)

Another camera snap, and he's dry heaving. He hasn't eaten enough to be able to actually throw up anything, but his body sure wants him to try.

"Shit, hold on!" the killer exclaims, and then Cellbit knows nothing.

-

He wakes up to the familiar sound of the beeping of a heart monitor. There's a familiar alien sensation in his arm- I.V. drip, okay.

Okay, he's at the hospital.

Eyes flickering open, Cellbit lets out a sigh. Bagi is going to hate this.

"Fuck," he sighs, staring up at the ceiling.

Once upon a time, Enigma was the most feared villain in the city. But then he got a son, and he found his long-lost twin sister, and he realized that dying either from blood loss or from Federation execution wasn't the ending he wanted anymore. He wanted to live, and so Enigma had to die.

Cellbit hasn't passed out from blood loss since he was just starting out as a villain. It's been almost a decade since then, and he's definitely lost his touch. But that's for the better, really. He doesn't need to use his powers for that kind of stuff anymore. He can heal his son's wounds. He can read the lives of the deceased.

...Or, he would if he could.

He's startled out of his thoughts as someone comes into his room with an armload of vending machine snacks.

"Oh!" the new person exclaims, eyes widening. "You're alive!"

Cellbit doesn't know this person, but he thinks that he wants to.

"Who are you?" Cellbit croaks. "What happened?"

He was with the killer... and then he passed out... and...

"Oh, yeah, so I was walking home from work, and I found you all bloody and passed out on the sidewalk," the man explains.

He sits in the chair by Cellbit's bed, and then he dumps his snacks on the bed and lets out a sigh.

"I'm glad you're okay," he continues. "I was seriously worried."

Cellbit blinks. He's tired, God.

"My camera?" he asks.

"Over there," the man replies. He points towards the other side of the room with his head. "That Hombre Misterioso left it behind when he saw me there."

Cellbit frowns. "Hombre...?"

"Hombre Misterioso. The guy killing all those Federation workers? Apparently, he took a bunch of pictures of himself and managed to send them to the police. That's what they're calling him."

Cellbit's brain ticks away. "Doesn't that just mean 'mysterious guy' in Spanish?"

"Ay, you know Spanish?" The man grins. "That's cool!"

"I'm Brazilian," Cellbit murmurs, not really answering.

He gives the man an appraising look: brown hair, soft looking; dark eyes, glittering; red t-shirt, form-fitting; blue bandana, goofy. Biceps.

The man catches his gaze and winks.

"I'm Roier," he says.

Cellbit gives up on his analyzing; he'll get back to it when he isn't still so drained from losing so much blood.

"Cellbit," he replies. "Thank you for saving me."

"Nah, it's nothing."

(Roier's smile is sharp-toothed and positively breathtaking [or maybe that's just the blood loss talking.])

"Thank you for waking up."

____

A/N: Thank you for reading! Let me know if you liked this and if you want to see more by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, etc! Let me know what you liked!

[sailorsenshishitposter]

Sukuna x Megumi

⚠️ Spoilers for chapter 212

"Shit! Not again!" For whatever reason, Yuji had lost control after eating another one of Sukuna's fingers. Megumi was alone and knew he had no choice. He then uttered "with this treasure I summon!" There was now a burst of light and Mahoraga had been summoned. It was too late though. Sukuna lifted his face down cards to reveal all five pieces of Exodia.

However Sukuna had no intention of walking into a store and buying a card pack like a common peasant so he decided to use Yuji's computer to illegally print off the cards. Due to being a thousand years old however, his understanding of modern technology was highly flawed, something he refused to admit. He ended up printing five copies of Exodias right leg. "I'll be damned before I let that brat refer to me as a boomer!"

Back in the present and Sukuna had just sent the abomination to attack Mahoragas life points. It wasn't very effective. Mahoraga used adapt and now shifted it's form into a jumbled mess of five legs. "The fuck?" cried Megumi. Sukuna now realizing he had a chance, sprinted and then tackled the boy while he was distracted.

Sukuna then whispered into his ear. "I want your body..." Megumi blushed. "It's not like I like you or anything, baka!" The older man chuckled. "I'm afraid you don't understand." He then pried open Megumi's mouth with his long claws. "This is my hole. It was made for me..." He then forced the sorcerer to vore him in entirety. Sukuna then started to inspect his new vessel.

"Ah, nothing beats the feeling of being at home. I can't believe I haven't used my vore technique since the Heian era. I should go find Uraume so we can open up that restaurant we always dreamed of. Wait, why is the sky turning purple?" He turned around to see none other than a furious Gojo. Sukuna started running like his life depended on it as he began screaming "MAHORAGAH, SAVE ME!!!!!!!"

[weixuldo]

Enigma// ch 28

anakin x reader

A/N: Hiii- just so u know this chapter is pretttty long and very plot heavy- just wanna remind yall im not a medical professional lol so sorry any misconstruing of info (i tried my best)!! i hope u all enjoy! i’ll explain more abt the chapter in the notes at the end :)

it’s a month before the baby is due and Anakin gets some news that may alter your future

warnings: cursing, pregnancy, liver failure, hospitals, whump, medical procedures, birth

____________________________

September 26th 

It had only been a few weeks since you and Anakin were wed and his health had already deteriorated significantly.

He was now at the point where he was only able to leave the house to go to his weekly check-ups at the hospital.

When he was at home, he tried to be more active and help you out, but you insisted that he take it easy… you wanted him to meet the baby and it seemed that he didn’t have much longer so you didn’t want him to rush the process. 

His pain levels changed with every hour, though some days were worse than others. After his episode on your wedding night he had to start setting alarms to remind him to take his pills so that the medicine would be working at the optimal rate it could. 

He headed your requests for him to “take it easy” but he still did so much for you (much to your chagrin).

At dinner he would get up from his chair to help you ease into yours, he would run bath’s for you and sneakily clean up the kitchen while you bathed, and he would stay up with you when you couldn’t rest. 

You really couldn’t ask for a better husband. 

As for you, the baby was really taking a toll on your tired body- Taking care of yourself, your baby, and your husband was a difficult feat.

Somedays you wanted nothing more than to roll over and not wake up, but you were never in those moods for long. 

Today was no different- You woke up with sharp pains in your lower back but brushed them off, you had been having them all week. Rolling your eyes, you got out of bed. 

Anakin was sitting stiffly on the sofa with one of his mechanical arms wrapped around his side. He was in pain. 

“Ani?” you said, barely above a whisper. 

He turned his focused gaze towards you and his furrowed brows softened, “Hey Angel- how’d you sleep?” he asked in a strained voice. 

You didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched when he tried to shift into a better position. 

“Not too well, but I’ll be ok. How about you? Are you alright?” you asked, walking towards him. 

He quickly nodded before you came closer, “Yea-’m ok, I just need to take my pills- I’ll get them in a minute” he said through gritted teeth. 

“I’ll go get them for you, Ani,” you said, turning towards the kitchen.

Before you knew it, his cool metallic grasp held your arm and made you shiver. 

“No!” he exclaimed before clenching his eyes shut and sucking in a sharp breath. 

“No, I’m ok- you need to rest baby” he said, attempting to guide you to the couch as he hoisted himself up. 

You were about to protest when you felt an uncomfortable sensation in your lower abdomen, 

“Shit!” you exclaimed, gripping the armrest on the couch. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, rushing from the kitchen, pills still in his clenched hand. 

“Nothing- just a harsh kick” you said, attempting to suppress your grimace. 

Anakin didn’t leave. 

“I’m ok Ani, really” you said before he nodded and went back to finish taking his meds. 

The baby had been moving a lot lately, but your doctor said it was normal for babies to be more active if the mother was under stress (which you definitely were). 

____________________________

“I’ll see you in a few” Anakin waved as he headed out the door with his jacket to meet Ben at his car. 

Ben and Ahsoka had been taking turns driving Anakin to his weekly appointments since he couldn’t drive himself and it wasn’t safe for you to drive either. They had been a huge help and you would never stop thanking them. 

“Bye Ani” you said before kissing him one last time.

The ride to the hospital was mostly silent between Ben and Anakin, save for the radio that played classic 2000’s hits. 

“How have you been feeling?” Ben asked as he pulled into the hospital’s parking lot. 

“Peachy…” Anakin lamented blankly. 

“I’m being serious Anakin,” Ben sighed.

Anakin took a deep breath, “honestly I feel worse by the day but I don’t want to tell her- she already has enough on her plate…”

Ben’s brows furrowed and he stroked his beard.

“Ben, I don’t know if i’m gonna make it to the birth-”

“Don’t think like that Anakin” Ben cut into his friend’s thoughts abruptly. 

“You’ve got to have hope”.

Anakin nodded silently before allowing his friend to help him out of the car and into his wheelchair.

Anakin could still walk, but it was better for him to conserve the little energy he had.

Of course, he absolutely hated using his chair- but it was the best option. 

The clinic was abnormally warm today and Anakin was getting uncomfortable in his sweatshirt. Ben sat in the chair next to the exam table Anakin was laid up on; head rested against the wall and arms crossed. 

“You didn’t have to stay Ben, I’m sure the news is going to be the same as always” Anakin sighed, staring at the ceiling. 

Anakin’s usual doctor had just taken a few samples to run labs on; a routine procedure for him- all there was to do was wait around for the results. 

“I didn’t want to just leave you in here, It’s perfectly fine Anakin” Ben smiled. 

Before Anakin could answer the doctor knocked on the door once more; in his hand a thick pamphlet along with his usual clipboard. 

“Mr. Skywalker…We have some unfortunate news…” 

Anakin felt his stomach drop- he didn’t expect there to be good news, but he didn’t expect anything other than the ordinary either.

“Yes?” he asked with a waiver in his voice. 

“I’m afraid you have developed acute liver failure… This is when a patient develops sudden and severe liver failure without a history of long-term liver disease. In these cases, an urgent liver transplant may be their only life-saving treatment. And from what your labs are showing- a transplant may be your only saving grace, sir”.

Anakin’s eyes closed, he needed a moment to process this. 

“Alright, how long do I have?” 

The doctor sighed, “There really is no telling sir- but not long…not long at all. Most likely in the next two weeks”.

Ben sat up in his chair, “So what are we going to do for him? There are at least seventy slots before him on the donor list!”

The doctor turned his attention to the bearded man; “We are admitting him to our hepatology and gastrology ward to monitor his condition- we will keep him here as long as we can and try to find a donor that matches his needs.”

“So what I'm hearing is you’re going to stick him in a room and hope he doesn’t die before you can find a plausible liver?” Ben argued but Anakin stopped him. 

“It’s fine, Ben,” he said before directing his attention to the doctor, “I don’t care if I’m miserable, please just try to keep me alive long enough to see my wife deliver our baby.”

“Of course”.

______________________

You were lying on the couch scrolling mindlessly through your phone when Ben’s number flashed across your screen.

Odd, he usually wasn’t the one to call. 

“Hello?”

Hey- umm, we have some bad news. 

“Oh…Oh God-” you sat up immediately. 

Anakin’s condition has turned into acute liver failure and he is in the final stages… He was admitted this afternoon and probably won't-

You heard Ben sniffle on the other line as your own tears dared to fall. 

-won’t be going home again

You felt your world spinning and you had to brace yourself on the couch arm, “Can I see him?- I want to see him,” you said firmly, rising to your feet. 

“No, Visiting hours are over for the day” you could hear the frown in Ben’s voice.

They closed around the time he was finally admitted, so I didn’t even get to see him- but I have his stuff, want me to drop it off?

“U-umm does he need it?” you asked, hoping to delay the blow of reality. 

No

“C-could you just hold onto it for now?”

Of course

“Thank you” you said before hanging up quickly. 

You tossed your phone on the other side of the couch and covered your mouth with your hands. This was real- not just hypothetical dates and times… He was really at the end.

As much as you didn’t want to, you just couldn’t hold back your agonizing cries.

Anakin would really be gone soon.  

____________

You had a terrible night sleep and felt like absolute shit- not only were you worried about Anakin, you couldn’t get a grasp on the pain you began to feel through your body.

Thankfully Ahsoka was supposed to come over in a while for lunch and to take you to see Anakin at the hospital.

About an hour after you had gotten yourself together for the day, you heard a knock on the door and Ahsoka came in with two to-go boxes. 

“Hello!” she said in a sing-songy voice, “How are my two favorite people doing?”.

You weakly laughed, “not two just yet! But it sure does feel like it's gonna be soon” you exhaled as you rose to your feet. Ahsoka always knew how to lighten a mood. 

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked, putting the food on the counter. 

“I’m not sure, I’ve been feeling off this week- It’s probably just normal pains though” you said, joining her at the table. 

“How are you feeling about…” she began.

You bit your lip and attempted to keep your smile. 

“I’m… not great, but I’m just hoping for a miracle. I-I just need Anakin to be ok” 

Ahsoka nodded and rubbed your upper arms. 

“I understand- I.. Just know that if you need anything or help when the baby comes- please never hesitate to ask”.

You hated that she spoke as if his fate were already sealed, but it mostly was. He had been living with a failing liver longer than he would have admitted to (especially evident in the fact that he never asked for the extra labs on his liver because of his past of alcohol abuse) since he just was trying to ignore the facts until they just went away (they never did). 

“Thank you Ahsoka, It really means a lot” you said, before you felt another sharp pain in your lower back. 

“Woah, are you sure you’re alright?” 

You nodded with gritted teeth, “Yea, It’s fine- Probably just slept wrong” 

“You sure? I can take you to the clinic if you’re worried” she offered.

“No no, I think I’m fine- let's eat!” 

The boxes had just been opened when you felt another jolt of pain shoot up your spine. You shut your eyes and clenched your jaw. 

Ahsoka sprung to your side and placed a gentle hand on your back, “Hey! Are you sure your-” 

She was cut off by your labored breathing; your chest heaved as you slid your chair back. 

“I-I think I just need some… fresh.. A-air” you said, getting to your feet. 

She shook her head, “I think you should stay seated” she coached.

Your world was spinning as pains washed over your body; you focused on your breathing and eventually got yourself to a decently normal cadence. 

You got up to head to the bathroom to splash some cool water on your face when you had to grip onto the sofa for support. You let out a painful cry and your eyes widened when you felt something wet running down your leg. 

Your water broke. 

“A-Ahsok-” you stuttered; you had barely processed what just happened when she was already by your side. 

“Ok- Ok, umm- Just breathe- I’m gonna get you to the hospital! It’s gonna be ok” she said, trying her best to stay calm. 

You nodded and closed your eyes to focus on controlling your breathing- This was really happening.

__________________

Ben sat in the big blue hospital-grade chair beside the exam table; he was reading a history book Satine had gotten for him on wars of the past. 

Anakin was lying wide awake on the uncomfortable exam table; currently he was occupied with the small cracks in the ceiling- at least he was keeping his mind busy. 

Soon enough another physician came in to observe him; Anakin was just about over random people coming in and out of his room like a revolving fucking door! Why did so many doctors need to come in to tell him the same verdict? Wasn’t hearing that he was “gonna to die soon” once enough?!

They began talking him through what the last few days may look like and if Anakin needed someone to talk through his emotions with (He thought that was stupid- why have someone else tell him how to read his own fucking emotions?) .

The doctor left to grab something (again) and Anakin turned to Ben. 

“Do you think Snipps is bringing y/n over soon?” he asked tiredly. 

Ben looked up and shrugged, “I assume so, they probably just got a late start”.

The doctor came back in and began to drone on about some other “experimental treatments” when Ben’s phone started to ring. He excused himself and went into the hallway- it was Ahsoka.

“Hello?” 

Hey Ben! So um… we’re not gonna make it to visit Anakin today- y/n’s water just broke and we’re on the way to the hospital now. 

“Maker! She isn’t due for another four weeks!” Ben exclaimed.

I know- Skyguy wasn’t picking up. Just let him know what's going on. I’m pretty sure she wont be up there to see him anytime soon though.

“Alright, I’ll let him know, be safe- And good luck y/n” Ben said before hanging up and swiftly making his way back to Anakin’s room. 

Ben quietly knocked but urgently entered the room; the doctor and Anakin’s focus both shifted to him. 

“Ben, You alright?” Anakin asked- he could read the worry all over his friend’s face. 

“Anakin… y/n has just gone into labor”

Anakin’s eyes widened and he sat up abruptly before grabbing his side in pain. 

“Woah, take it easy Mr. Skywalker” the doctor informed, placing his steady hands on his patient’s shoulders. 

“I need to see her!” Anakin exclaimed, trying to push himself up. 

“No, you don’t need to overexert yourself, you’ll just worsen your condition”

“Doc, she’s a month early- I need to be there for my wife” Anakin protested, pushing himself off of the examination table. 

Thankfully he was already wearing his prosthetics today; even though it wasn’t recommended he was allowed to wear them some days (much to his physician’s displeasure). 

The doctor ignored his protests and kept him sat. 

“Sir I cannot let you leave, you are my patient and I need to look after your wellbeing and exhausting yourself by going all the way to the maternity ward is not in the interest of your physical wellbeing!”

Anakin’s gaze hardened and he looked over the physician’s shoulder to Ben, “Is she alright Ben? Maker-Please tell me she’s alright” he begged. 

Ben gave a sympathetic look before sighing, “I’m not sure, Ahsoka didn’t give many details”.

Anakin threw his head back onto the plush table and let out a defeated sigh. 

“I am very sorry Mr. Skywalker, but I need to continue your exami-”

Anakin shot up again, this time with all of his strength. His eyes conveyed desperation, sadness, anger, and worry as he wrapped a mechanical hand around the doctor’s wrist.

“We both know my condition is a death sentence- unless I miraculously get a donor in the next week, I’m not gonna see the end of the month. So hear me when I tell you I will not sit idly by when my wife is scared and alone giving birth for the first time. I will not leave her feeling like i didn’t care” Anakin physically shook with emotion. 

Ben came to his side and tried to talk him down; even if he disagreed with the doctor’s order, he was the more level headed between himself and his friend. 

“She is my wife and I will be by her side to see our baby born- even if it’s the last thing I do, at least I was there with her and left her knowing I'd come when she needed me.” 

The doctor’s own eyes began to water once he was released from Anakin’s hold, but even so he shook his head, “I-i’m truly sorry sir, B-but I do not-”

“I could drop dead any fucking day! Can you not just let a dying man be there for his wife?! For Goddsake, my wife is delivering four weeks early?! She’s probably terrified down there!” he practically screamed.

The doctor looked to Ben for guidance but only found the bearded man casting a disapproving gaze his way. 

“He will find a way to leave regardless of what you prescribe” Ben warned. 

Finally, after a moment of contemplation, the doctor nodded and shortly left the room, “I hope you realize, this is not a wise decision- I will have to refer you to a different physician”. 

Anakin’s eye twitched at the man’s words, it was basically a “fuck you” to him. But he didn’t care, what he cared about was getting to you. 

____________________________

Ahsoka drove like a madwoman to get you here quickly; once you arrived you were taken from the emergency room to the maternity ward. Ahsoka wasn’t allowed to come into the room with you, so she was left pacing the waiting room nervously. 

Another wave of searing pain washed through your body as you clenched your eyes shut. You bit back a scream and clawed at the hospital grade mattress beneath you. 

Maker, you were never doing this shit again. 

Your whole body trembled as you let out a strained cry. You weren’t due for another month- why was this happening now? Was the baby going to be alright?

After another cry you managed to get one of your many questions out.

“W-Where’s Ana-anakin?” you huffed out to a nurse (who definitely had no idea who you were talking about).

“What’s that darling?” she asked, trying to be as comforting as she could.

“My h-husband, Wh-where is he” you asked desperately- your mind was in a whirr and you were not thinking straight. 

“Does he h-have his legs on? Or d-does he need my help-” 

“I’m sorry mam, I don't understand?” she offered. 

You were about to speak again when another sharp pain nipped at your lower back; you groaned and pushed your head back into the pillows behind you. 

What if Anakin wasn't coming, what if something happened?

You trembled in pain and fear- this was all new to you and you were alone…

After what felt like ages another midwife came in to assist- she seemed more experienced than the first one; once she saw your scared state she immediately went to comfort you. 

“ts all gonna be alright, Hon. We’re gonna fix you up with some pain meds and make you as comfortable as we can- The baby ‘s gonna be alright ‘n your husband’s comin’ soon- just try to breathe'' she spoke with a warm southern accent that almost made it seem like what she was saying was true. 

You nodded and took one of the ice chips she offered you. The cold chip felt nice as it melted in your mouth; they provided some much needed cooling from your uncomfortably warm body. 

Your eyes were soon shut tightly from pain, “I-I don’t th-think I can do t-this” you cried as you braced for another rush of pain. 

In the moment the sensation reached its peak, the door burst open making you gasp; you couldn’t help the overwhelming sobs once you realized who it was. 

Anakin- he was standing tall and covered in the required scrubs; they fit him terribly and one of the other midwives had to hold them up as he stumbled towards you. 

“Angel!” he called once he was by your side. 

“Ani! You came?!” you exclaimed, desperately reaching for him. 

“Of course I came, Sweetheart, I wouldn’t miss it for the world” (and that was really true). 

“A-are you going t-to be ok? What about your l-liver?” you fretted over your husband’s condition. 

“I’ve got it taken care of, just focus on breathing for me, ok?” The calmness of his voice helped your worries subside.

Your eyes opened just enough to look over his worried features before you screwed them shut once more. You pushed your head into the pillow as your back arched in pain. 

“A-Ani” you cried as you grabbed onto one of his mechanical hands; good thing he couldn’t actually feel your grip because it definitely would have pained him. 

“Shhh- it's all going to be ok princess. you’ve got it” he said sweetly as he ran his other hand over your hair. 

“I-I’m sorry Ani” you sobbed. 

“No, no! What do you have to apologize for? Nothing baby- nothing” he said, pressing kisses to your temple. 

“The baby wasn’t due for f-four more weeks- I put them in d-danger”.

“What? No, they just wanted to come see us early- that's all. You’ve done nothing wrong” he tried to smile. 

He was a good actor, but you knew he was hurting just as much as you were. 

With what little strength you had left, you pulled him closer; “I-I’m scared…What if the baby doesn't make it Ani?”.

His brows upturned sadly, “Oh no, baby- don’t think about that now, you’re doing great and so is the baby”. 

Somehow his words calmed you (even though he wasn’t the least bit certified to be telling you these things).

You nodded and asked him to hold you closer and he did the best he could. 

You fell in and out of consciousness but were still able to follow the midwife's instructions. The whole time Anakin stayed by your side comforting you (and hiding his own pain from you). 

“She's losing a lot of blood” a midwife relayed to the doctor, who then barked some orders to another nurse. 

“Did you hook her up to the IV?” one of them asked.

“What?! What’s happening?” Anakin demanded, walking closer to the nurse at your feet.

“We’ll have to do an emergency C-section” the midwife said to the doctor, ignoring Anakin’s worried questions. 

“Is she going to be alrig-” Anakin started. 

“Sir, Please back away- we’re handling it.”

He was about to respond when you tugged weakly on his arm begging for him to come back. He bit his lower lip and quickly made his way back to you. Your eyes were unfocused and glassy.

“A-ani, I can’t- I c-can't-” you croaked out as your body began to wear down.

“It’s going to be ok Angel. It’s going to be alright, just stay awake for me” he repeated as he brushed the loose strands of hair out of your face. 

After a particularly painful contraction you fell limp and Anakin’s heart skipped a beat. 

“Y/n!? Baby, please wake up for me- please” he begged as he caressed your flushed face. 

He felt his tears falling- he never thought he would be the one to lose you.

After a moment your eyes hazily opened and closed; Anakin’s pulse was racing as he attempted to gain your attention. 

“That’s it Sweetheart! Just try to stay awake for me please” he cried as your eyes finally landed on him (thought they were still unfocused).

“A-Ani-”

A midwife began to unlock the wheels of the hospital bed; an odd feeling washed over Anakin and he stood still for a moment gripping onto the bed rail for support. 

“Sir, Please move your hand off of the bed” the nurse sternly asked. 

No response. 

“We need to take her into surgery right now. Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to-” 

Anakin collapsed onto the floor with a thud- the nurses initially figured he passed out from the stress of watching his wife give birth, but once he started clawing at his side in agony they realized it was something else.

You heard his painful howls and snapped back into reality (just for a moment). 

“Anakin!” you exclaimed as you watched him struggle on the floor beside you. 

“Sir- Sir what’s wrong?” one attempted to ask.

“He’s in the last stages of liver failure- He needs a doctor!” you cried. 

All you wanted was to go to him, but your own pain was immobilizing. The next moments were a blur; first they wheeled you down to the operation room- you cried on the way, begging for them to let you stay with Anakin (you were not in the right head space to be making any decisions). 

Anakin was left on the floor as they took you out of the room- was he ever going to see you again? He felt himself slipping away…

He felt the darkness clouding his vision. 

He felt… 

***

a/n: it’s getting hella juicy… i hope this chapter wasn’t too everywhere haha… i’m not gonna lie idk that much abt liver failure but i do know abt acute liver failure. the next chapter is gonna have some medical stuff too and some of it is pretty rare, ngl (mostly pertaining to the birth) just cause im a sucker for drama- so sorry if it’s not the most realistic (everything i’ll write in the next chapter is possible tho/ just in very specific circumstances hahah)

Also i’m not the best with timelines and not entirely sure how long some of these medical things last… oops- that all being said!!! thank you all for the support and interest in my story :)

taglist : @dnamht @sxoulohvn @angeelcoree @wtf-andys @httpeachesblog @katsukiswrld @jetiikote @poisonedsultana @imarimone12 @fallinlovewithevil @sythe-skywalker

[adaines-furious-feast]

I am so torn between wanting "Jace was in the wrong place at the wrong time/caught Porter's eye for whatever reason and gave in because he's terrified of the fate that befell Lucy" and "they be fucking and/or Jace was just supporting his bestie's goals this entire time".

But I'm mostly scared of there being nothing

[orionsd00dles]

The motivation to write the first chapter of my ao3 Varigo fic hit me like a truck today and omg and I just had to share this screenshot I took of a scene between Varian, Hector, and Adira I wrote in my Google Docs and omg idk why was this so funny to me lmao.

[milflewis]

1.2k sewis. The Winner’s Room. past tense

It isn’t until the main course — and seven bottles of wine in — that the conversation turns to the world champion’s pick for The Room. Sebastian, as par on course for the night and most of the weekend, is the focus of the chatter.

Everyone knows that Lewis only ever used his turns twice. He was the first ever driver to refuse to choose for The Winner’s Room ceremony. It didn’t earn him any goodwill or love but then again, Mick thinks, that has never been why Lewis does what he does. It is one of the things that Mick respects most about him.

(It is one of the things that he dislikes most about him. Mick has never done well with envy.)

"They've never shared a Room," Daniel is saying loudly, because Daniel says everything loudly.

He pauses, mouth slack at the corners.

He frowns.

There is an expression on Valtteri's face, which is enough of a concern without Mick realising that this is what he looks like when he's planning murder. He doesn't look at Lewis, who has stopped talking beside Sebastian, focused completely on Daniel.

Guanyu refills his glass to the brim and promptly swallows half of it.

"Wait," Daniel says, like a gunshot. "There was that one year, I think?"

He turns in his seat, swaying, and calls out Sebastian's name. Sebastian leans back in his chair, the ends of his hair brushing Lewis's bare forearm, half dangling off of the back of Sebastian's seat and half on his shoulders.

Lewis's fingers are curled into the side of Sebastian's collar.

"Sebastian," Daniel says again.

"Daniel," Sebastian replies.

"When did you and Lewis do The Room again? It was before '17, right?"

Sebastian hums. Valtteri's expression has grown it's own presence, seating itself at the table. Mick feels the urge to hunch in his shoulders to make himself a smaller target. He doesn't like not knowing the blast radius.

Lewis's mouth is doing the thing that he does when he would give nearly anything in the world to be wearing his sunglasses right at this moment. Mick remembers being smaller, with bonier wrists, and his dad pointing it out to him as if it was the funniest thing ever.

"2013," Sebastian says casually, eyes calm. He blinks. Daniel scrunches up his nose as he tries to remember.

Everyone goes that bit more still as the knowledge that it was Sebastian who picked Lewis, but even more importantly, it was during a time when they weren't even friends, sinks in.

Mick has known this for a long time but still, he has no idea what to do with it. He has never asked Sebastian if it had anything to do with Nico, or worse, with Mark.

Mick has known him for over ten years, and in that time, Sebastian has never given nor asked for a straight answer. It's not as endearing as he likes to say it is.

It would be cruel to ask Lewis.

Mick does not like being cruel.

"Yeah, it was 2013," Daniel agrees as if Sebastian himself hadn't just said it. "I always forget about that."

George looks like he's about to burst. Pierre isn't doing much better. Guaunyu seems to have acquired another glass and is drinking out of the two of them with several straws.

Valtteri has gone unnaturally still. Yuki eyes him from behind Pierre, fascinated.

"Was it just one of those things, you know? Like, fuck it, yeah, why not? Be a bit of a laugh."

"Something like that."

"Huh."

And then: "Well, c'mon, who gave it to who? I know Mark told me but I can't remember. Head's like a sieve." A laugh.

"Hmm." Sebastian says nothing else, only smiles placidly.

It doesn't matter. Daniel has smelt blood in the water.

He and Valtteri rowed recently, Mick knows. The best way to hit back at Valtteri is to go after Lewis, Mick also knows.

"I never got fucked," is all Lewis says, quiet. He could be saying it is raining outside. It's the same voice he used when Toto told him Mick was going to be their reserve driver, and he just said, yeah, cool, for sure, before remembering that there is protocol and social niceties to observe and properly congratulated him, smiling wide.

Sometimes, Mick can understand the urge that some of the other drivers have, especially the older ones, to shake Lewis until something, anything, falls out.

It is tiresome to remind yourself that people owe you nothing but Mick tries to do it anyway. His mother taught him well.

"No?" Daniel asks. "And what about now?"

Fernando is mimicking eating something out of his hands. An ass, maybe. Or an apple. Lewis doesn't look at him.

He opens his mouth to say something terrible and most likely going to send several people here to an early death. Mick has realised over the last few months that Lewis is, like, sort of awful and that he should be grateful that he is so busy with all his different charities and rich bitch friends who eat hummus and whale sperm and whatever to have enough time to be a cunt like he used to be.

Jenson, it turns out, has a lot of opinions.

"Why." Valtteri's eyes are bright. His hands are flat on the table. Sebastian raises an eyebrow. He's fucking amused, Mick realises. Like a fucking lunatic.

Gina doesn't like the term lunatic. She says it's inaccurate and unfair. Mick thinks it anyway.

"Are you asking," Valtteri continues. Mick wonders if the lack of inflection is a Finnish thing or a Valtteri thing. Mika is Mick's main and pretty much only frame of reference to Finland. But Mick has been told he deserves his own box and should not be compared to anyone else.

"How's everyone doing tonight?" Their waiter is tall and broad shouldered and dark haired. He has a beard. Mick fights the urge to tell him that he may have just saved Daniel Ricciardo's life right now. "Do you need anything else?"

"No, thanks," Sebastian grins. "We're doing just fine."

"Actually," Fernando cuts in, and Kevin looks up at the ceiling beside Mick with the same twist to his face that he always gets around Guenther. "Do you happen to have any peaches?"

[miss-spookhead]

thinking about a Blast From the Past steddie au tonight. like, think about it for a second--steve as the sweet, well-meaning himbo raised in a fallout shelter and eddie as the cynic who shows him the world as it is:

The year was 1962, and an atomic bomb had just dropped on top of the Harrington household.

Okay, not really. It was actually a fighter jet that suffered a mechanical failure just above the little plot of land the Harringtons called their home, but Walter Harrington took it differently. Far differently.

See, the thing was that the man was living in a state of paranoid delusion over the Cold War--terrified of the possibility of an outright nuclear holocaust over the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Soviet Union. He had been carefully building a fallout shelter under his home for his wife and possible children to live in with the works--canned food, running water, and even a working television.

And one day they went in and simply never left. The explosion right when they closed the door was tangible proof that the nuclear war was happening right above them.

A few years later, around 1968, a baby boy was born in a fallout shelter with no one but his mom and dad to keep him company.

They raised Steve the best they could, even if Walter Harrington was a mad genius and Madeline Harrington was a borderline alcoholic. Even if the boy was living in a perfect little time capsule of the fifties and early sixties. Walter made sure to educate him right and teach him how to be a sociable gentleman--even if he had no idea what swear words or the concept of sex were. That was for another time. Although, twenty-four years came and went for Steve Harrington, his father still owes him 'another time'.

Steve Harrington grows twenty-four years in perfect seclusion, but that changes at the flick of a switch.

The year is 1992: supplies are dwindling Walter is growing sick, and Steve is tasked to bravely set foot in the nuclear fallout to retrieve more material. (The only reason why Walter assumes they can even get more stuff is because he observed the outside world when the shelter unlocked and mistook it as a post-apocalyptic mutant society.)

The moment Steve made it outside his little bubble, he was utterly fascinated by the world--how different the people were outside of his television and his little books, how bright the sky was outside, how the irritable man on the bus wouldn't accept the money he tried to give him, how the bus moved and didn't fling him right off his seat.

(He even saw an adult bookstore. Dad told him that those things were filled with poisonous gas. How were they even to operate if they were filled with poisonous gas? That's dangerous and totally inconsiderate of the general public's safety.)

Anyway, he tries to follow the grocery list that Mom and Dad gave him the best he can, stocking up on poultry and tissue paper and the works. But by the end of the day, he doesn't know where he came from. Not a single sign or building or person can give him a single clue where to go.

After a few hours of wandering, suitcase in hand, he comes across a store with WE BUY BASEBALL CARDS written on the window.

Golly, Steve loves baseball cards--could look at Dad's collection for hours, and with the collection he has, he could make a pretty penny selling them for supplies. Despite the little hobby store being beside an adult bookstore with poisonous gas, he scampers right in.

"I see you're looking to buy baseball cards," he says breezily to the gruff, scary-looking man behind the counter.

"That I am," he replies.

Steve pulls a few from his jacket's inner pocket. "Well, these are a bit old, you see, but I was hoping you still might be interested."

The gruff man yanks them from his hands, a spark in his eye. He looks delighted to see them, and it fills Steve with an excitement he hadn't felt at all today. Nobody has been this happy over something he's done today. "Woah," he gasps, then covers it with a cough. "Mickey Mantle rookie season...how much do you want?"

"I was hoping to sell all of my cards, actually!"

The man sputters incredulously. "All of 'em? Are you fucking with me?"

"I'm not sure what that means, but all I have are hundred-dollar bills and I need something smaller. Like, uh...ones, tens, fives..."

"Tell you what, I'll give you five hundred in small bills for all you got."

Steve smiles brightly. "Oh, that would be wonderful, sir--"

"Five hundred for a case-full of rookie season Mickey Mantles, Rick, are you fucking joking?" A deep voice cuts through Steve's thanks from the other side of the small store. He turns around to find a man leaning against a magazine rack, arms folded sternly.

The man is unlike Steve's ever seen before. Long, long limbs and big brown eyes that look traced with black and smudged around the edges. Pretty lips, too almost girl-ish, in the way they were big and plush like the women he'd see on the television. The strangest thing about him, though, was the curly hair that tumbled past his shoulders.

He looked mad, though. Madder than mad.

"Tell the poor guy you're fucking with him," long-hair-pretty-lips says to the man behind the counter, who bristles.

"Were you raised in a fucking barn, Munson? Who told you to interrupt on business?" Rick counters. Steve was really not appreciating the amount of f-words dropped in the conversation, it was uncouth.

"Sure I was!" Munson saunters towards the counter and Steve's eyes follow him like a moth to a light. "But my morals go past your business practices at this point. You remember the ninth commandment, yeah?"

"You shut your Goddamn mouth--"

"Excuse me sir, but I really don't appreciate how you're using the Lord's name in vain like that," Steve says firmly.

"See?" Munson smiles. It's like sunlight. "He gets it."

He plucks the baseball card from Rick's hand and holds it over his head when he tries to reach for it again. "See this little thing?" He says to Steve sweetly. "This guy costs six grand alone."

"Get out of town! Really?"

"Oh yeah, big guy. Selling the thing would give you a small fortune, and Rick over here is trying to con you out of it."

Steve frowns. "Is that true?" He asks Rick.

"Nothing but," Munson says in place of him. He slips the card back into Steve's hands and gives them a pat.

"The Hell is even keeping you here, Munson?" Rick sneers. "Did the gig you won't shut up about fall through like they usually do? Better to bum it out here than in your shithole apartment? Stop loitering in my damn store and make like a fucking tree. You're banned."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Munson says rolling his eyes. He looks at Steve, then the door, gesturing at it with a flick of his head. "I'll see you out, Beaver."

He walks them both out the door, stopping to gesture at Rick strangely--hands balled into fists with only his middle fingers up--before stepping outside onto the sidewalk.

"Well merci, Monsieur," Steve says appreciatively, because Dad taught him French was always to be used on such occasions.

"What, you're French?"

"Oh no, I'm"--he thinks back to what Dad told him if a mutant asks where he's from. Gosh, he thinks he's supposed to be--"out on business."

"And you don't even have a clue about the little business trick that Rick tried to pull?"

"No...no, I--"

"Yeah, doesn't matter." Munson shrugs. He smiles sympathetically at Steve before turning on his heel and walking off. Oh boy, what would he do without him?

He follows him like a lost puppy, that's what.

"...You going the same way?" Munson asks incredulously. Steve shakes his head.

"Well, I'm following you."

Munson stops in his tracks, blinking, and Steve almost runs into him in his state. "Me?"

"Well yes! Where are we going?"

"We?" Munson asserts. "I'm going back to my shithole apartment, and judging by that jacket you're wearing, you should be taking the next left and hop-skipping straight to the barber college."

"Oh, I'm lost, though."

"Aren't we all?"

"Say, did you just get banned from that hobby store because of me?" Steve says to change the subject.

Munson sighs. "Seems like I did, sailor. The place was shitty anyways, with that dickhead running the operation. Wayne could get better cards from a different joint."

...dickhead? Steve's never heard that leave the seams of anyone's lips before. "Dickhead?"

"Yeah, he's a real fucking loser. A walking talking penis capable of human speech."

Steve gets queasy at the image he's concocted in his head. He leans against the nearest brick wall, his suitcase tumbling to the ground as he drops into a contemplative squat.

"Dude, what is wrong with you?"

"Well, the mental image that I..."

Munson's eyebrows scrunch before he reaches out a hand to Steve. He takes it, letting the man haul him upward. "Look, man, where'd you park your car?"

"I came by bus."

"Aren't you full of surprises."

"I am?"

"Okay look." Eddie raises his hands, palms splayed in the air. "It's your first time in Los Angeles, right? Everyone wants a taste of it, I know, and you're out for business and fucking famished. You got the opportunity to see the great big world outside of your little bubble and you got excited--but you took a bus and got mixed up in the middle of San Fernando Valley without a clue in the world. Am I correct?"

Steve listens in wonderment. So far, Munson's been correct in a way. He's convinced he might be psychic. He nods slowly and seriously just to see Munson flash that lighting-strike smile.

"Great, great. Which brings us to here. Correct again?"

"Oh yeah."

"Where are you staying?"

Nowhere, at the moment. Steve opens his mouth to say so, but Munson interrupts quickly. "Holiday Inn?"

"Yes, the Holiday Inn!" Steve says totally truthfully.

"Okay, cool. Cool." Munson claps his hands together with finality and starts walking. "The nearest bus station is a couple of blocks away if you take a right--"

"Don't you have a car?"

Munson stops in his tracks again. He turns to face Steve once again. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Something warm pools in Steve's gut at the pet name. Something about the way those pretty lips form that word sends blood rushing to his cheeks. "Steve," he says.

"Alright, Steve." Oh boy, his name sounds even better when Munson says it. "Rule number one in Los Angeles? Never let a stranger drive you anywhere."

"If it makes you feel any better," Steve says sweetly, "I don't have a gun."

Munson pales, then starts running.

"Hey!" Steve cries and makes haste to follow him. "I must've said something wrong, please forgive me!"

"Nope, nope--get the fuck away from me, man!"

He grabs Munson's wrist to pull him back, which is a bad move since the man starts writhing around in his grip. "I'm not going to hurt you, sir!"

Steve drops Munson's hand and raises his in surrender. "See?"

"...Just let me get to my car."

"I'll give you a Rogers Hornsby if you take me to my hotel," Steve reasons.

Munson stills. "...That's like four grand, don't bullshit me."

He pulls the card from his jacket and presents it as evidence. "See? I was holding it back." He wants Munson to feel safe. "I got two." He reaches for the other cards in his pockets and pulls them out. "And-and all these other ones, too!"

"Okay, okay. You'll give me four thousand dollars if I drive you to your place?"

"Uh-uh!"

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"And I don't have to give you a quickie in the backseat or anything?"

"Yes sir--wait, what?"

Munson blows past his question like it didn't even leave Steve's mouth. "Can you stop with the sir crap?"

"Well, I'm sorry, sir--"

"My name is Eddie."

Eddie...Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Wow, what a name. It's almost like something he's heard on the television.

"Why, it's nice to meet you, Eddie."

"Tolerable to meet you too, Steve."

Steve smiles shyly, then asks, "So are you a girl?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well it's just your hair...it's so long." Steve points at his as an example. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"Dude, it's 1992, every other guy looks like this--have you been living under a rock or something?"

Something like that. Steve shrugs.

"Well guys having long hair doesn't mean that they're girls, Steve, that's a given. It's not 1962 anymore." Eddie backtracks. "Well, I mean, dudes can have long hair and be chicks and chicks can be dudes too but that's not--"

"Oh, wow, my dad told me about one of those the last time he went here!"

"Oh that's fantastic, sweetheart," Eddie says, sugary-sweet. "But how about I drive you home?"

"That'd be a pleasure, Eddie."

[annoyed-at-things]

Not many people know this, but Janet Drake actually had a sister. But as a child she was always compared so much to her, that even though her sister loved her unconditionally she went to Gotham and cut contact, paying her way to forgetting her past. Her sister, though saddened, let it happen because she wanted to respect her older sister. Her daughters got curious about the sister their mother always loved but never saw, but they respected her wishes to keep seperate. After both of Tim's parents die though, that's off the table, and Tim Drake gets a call from his oldest cousin Barbara Millicent Roberts-

[oldsargasso]

ficlet: under cover of the same night

four day weekend starts tomorrow!! and I can start it early today as soon as I process these payrolls so while I wait for the info to come in, I am thinking about a particular Way & Kenta-centric idea that woke me up in the middle of the night last night and made me scramble for notes.

like. what if Kenta's alpha power was bringing people back from the dead? but he has to take a life first.

There's nothing in-between dying and coming back. Way gets shot. He says his goodbyes, lets his life slip away, willing himself to embrace the cold and unknown. Way blinks his eyes open to the harsh artificial lighting that graces the room he finds himself in. He's blinded; his eyes water and he blinks rapidly. The air is ice-cold. The metal underneath him stings at his exposed skin. His jacket's vanished along with his shoes and socks, but at least his shirt mostly remains. It's stiff and thick with dried blood. The whole room stinks of bleach.

There's someone breathing by his side. Way's eyes finally obey his mind, and he turns his focus to the figure.

"Finally," Kenta sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks bored, as much as any expression can be read on his face. "You took forever to come back."

An apology isn't really in Way's modus operandi, especially not to Tony's little lapdog (and especially not to someone with such history with Pete---it's not like Pete is Way's exactly, but he's certainly not for Kenta.) Instead he keeps his mouth shut and pushes himself up to sitting. Kenta unfolds his arms and hovers his hands but doesn't quite reach out to help. There's a deep pain in Way's shoulder when he moves; when he raises his hand to it, he finds nothing but smooth unscarred skin.

"Didn't I get shot?"

Kenta nods. "Yes."

Memory flickers back on in the back of Way's mind. He feels a little light-headed, unmoored in the steel and white expanse of the hospital morgue. "And I---Didn't I die?"

Another nod from Kenta. Like a puppet on a string. "Yes. I..." He sighs deeply, like this conversation with Way is so very tiring for him. A spark of irritation begins to warm Way's body. "I brought you back."

"Why?" Way is incredulous and unable to mask it. Of all people? There's no love lost or won between the two of them.

"I don't get a choice," Kenta says. "I take a life, I have to give a life."

How did you find that out? burns on the tip of Way's tongue, but he holds it back. Sometimes it's better not to know. "No other options laying around, I take it," Way says instead. The bitterness in his tone is for himself, but of course Kenta takes it as his own.

"I wouldn't have had to kill our father if you all had just---" Kenta cuts himself off, taking a deep unsteady breath. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Can you stand? We need to go."

Way can stand, as it turns out, but only with judicious assistance from Kenta. They shuffle their way to the exit. Way's feet are bare; the heels of Kenta's shoes click on the shiny clean linoleum.

The car parked outside in the loading zone isn't one Way's familiar with. White, compact, nondescript. Kenta eases him down into the passenger seat and slides behind the wheel. He turns the car on and the radio comes to life as well, too quiet to make out anything but the general idea of music.

"Where do you want to go?" Kenta asks, hands neat and tidy at ten and two once he's pulled onto the street.

"What," Way says more than asks, "you don't have this all planned out?"

He watches with sick amusement as Kenta's knuckles go white around the steering wheel. "No little hidey-hole all stocked up and ready to go?"

"If you don't have anywhere to go---" Kenta says in a carefully calm tone.

"Pete's," Way cuts him off sharply. "I want---Let's go see Pete."

Kenta doesn't ask for directions. They don't speak again as they navigate the night-time traffic. Way wants to know what time it is. He wants to know everything that happened from when he clocked out, how long it's been exactly, how everyone is doing, if they're all okay. Somehow, asking Kenta any of it feels like admitting defeat. So Way sits in silence and shivers a little in his short sleeves and ignores the growing ache of hunger in favour of watching the way Kenta drives out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't anticipate other drivers enough, has to hit the brakes harder than he should at times, but he's defensive when he needs to be and aggressive enough to make the lights when he should, so. Serviceable, at best.

----

and then ??? how long HAS it been. how is everyone? what is Pete's reaction? is he happy enough to have them both there that he can ignore the way they snipe at each other? (how long until he has to call in reinforcements)

[mysticscorpia]

Phantom of the Opera

FLUFF WEEK 2024 ENTRY

An Angel's Confidant

Christine faces challenges during her time at the Opera House, however her Angel is always there to comfort her. But will they be able to bridge the rift caused by their past misfortunes?

-> Erik/Christine

-> 5, 701 k

Thanks for reading!! 🥰

[thee-great-enigma]

When you pick dogs or cats, or any similar animal really, up by their scruff they submit immediately, it's instinct.

Price knows that

Animal hybrid mreader

He knows damn well that all he has to do is pick you up by the back of your neck and you stop snarling and back talking

He knows that he just has look at the back of your neck by now and you're already quivering

He uses it to tame you when you first join TF141 and to keep you in line from then on

He does it during sex too, tugging you by the back of your neck as he slams into you or while he lets you rut into him, whatever he feels like giving you at the time.

He especially uses it when your heat comes round, tugging your clingy hot body away from him by your scruff so he can actually focus on his work.

And if you try to protect your scruff by covering it with your hands or a scarf?

Well you're fucked, literally and figuratively

"You're gonna stop with that attitude, muppet." Price growled into your ear, making it twitch as he pistoned his hips in and out of you. This was one of the rare times he decided to top, leaving your angry red cock abandoned and stuffed between your stomach and a pillow.

"Ah- ah- D- didn't..have an att- itude s- sir..." You whined back, barely able to think as his cock head pressed relentlessly against your prostate, making you jolt with each thrust.

It was never as much fun when he topped, which was the point of it being a punishment.

"Coverin' your neck is plenty attitude. How many times have I told you not to do it?" He grumbled, voice gruff and husky as he tugged your hair to lift your head so you could turn and look at him. He brought you into a rough kiss, his beard rubbing against your face as he nibbled your lips and tugged on it a little, making you whine.

"I- I'm sorry sir, won't happen again- please- ah- p- promise- I promise it won't happen again- captain please mercy- slow down–" You pleaded, clawing at whatever you could reach.

"Damn right it won't. It happens again and I'll start lockin' you in a cage with a vibe up your ass, you understand, brat?" You quickly nodded. Pleased with your answer, Price grabbed your cock and stroked it at the same pace his cock rammed into your hole at. You clawed and begged to cum, and he let you, kissing the back of your neck as he soon followed suit.

"There's my good boy. Behave next time or I'll make it worse."

[euphreana]

Woohoo! The stars aligned and I finally got to see RRR! BIG thanks for @enigma-the-mysterious for providing the link to the original with subs! (Heads-up it's a 6GB video file so if you want it, make sure you have a good internet connection and plenty of time to download it.)

I'm probably going to need a hot minute to process all three hours of it but yeah! Awesome movie! Highly recommended if you want some fun, over-the-top action complete with dance-offs and dynamic chemistry between two guys who have a thing for each other. (And if you follow my reblog blog, brace yourselves for some RRR content. :D)

[howtodrawyourdragon]

Enigma: Chapter 2

Rogue Magic Part 1 - Astrid

Summary: In a world where magic exists, it’s of the utmost importance to know how to control your abilities. Hiccup has been plagued by his own brand of magic for as long as he’s been alive. When his powers are accidentally outed in front of Astrid, she gets him into the same school of magic she’s going. He hopes to learn how to control his magic and find answers to the enigma that is him and his powers.

Warnings: /

Rating: General

Words: 3 722

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Characters: Hiccup, Astrid, Dagur, Heather

Pairing: /

Author's Notes: It took a little while, but here's the next chapter! I don't have the entire outline done, but I did get the outline done for this story arc, which is what I'm writing now. Got a little bit stuck on this one, but I got it done in the end.

Enjoy!

[randomfoggytiger]

"Intriguingly Alluring"

(Dedicated to @x-files4everdd~. Merry Christmas!)

Set during the events of Humbug.

*****

This whole case, from beginning to end, was a circus.  

A little on the nose, so to speak; but it fit: he and Scully, a two person act themselves, caught up in the swirl of reformed showbusiness and love that was deeper than skin deep. His by-some-standards desirable stature loping not far behind her little feet’s tap-tap-tap code along the pavement. Both racing from cemetery to potato hole to jailhouse, captured in a thousand mirrors while the final gag played itself out. 

Staring down the RV park, Mulder was aware that dozens of eyes stared back, aware that the frustration of his reputation rippled and crackled through the crowd. Can’t escape the taint of being spooky even in a professionally strange town, the eye rolls and shoulder shrugs blatantly telegraphed. Yeah, buddy, we’ve heard this before-- a Kidney Kid? where’d he go? pique rather than the reddening faces and outraged insults of more standard establishments.

Weird was respected, here. Well, no; weird wasn’t respected so much as a neural element: it was un-weird, a place or habit or state of being that categorized the weirdos as those who cared about being weird. Everyone else was just here.   

Scully was talking to Blockhead or Blockhead was talking to Scully; but either way they were both looking Mulder’s direction, her eyebrows scrunched, scrutinizing, and his gestures animated, illustrating. Possibly even annoyed and aggrieved. 

It was chilly for a Florida morning, another unusual-usual thing about this case. There’d be another burial-- three, on top of the one they flew down for; and he knew Scully would mosey back for this one (all of them) by her contemplative expression and relaxed shoulders. She’d liked it here, liked being the bloodhound this case, liked decoding the tricks that ran laps around his mind, liked the people and the memories, liked the place. He’d fly down, too. 

Doctor Blockhead was in the truck and almost situated behind the wheel when Mulder reached the group, an energetic contrast to the slumped over companion in his passenger seat. 

“What’s the matter with your friend?” 

This magician’s verbosity was his greatest trick, Mulder knew; and he prepared for an interesting parting observation. But all magic is best performed with misdirection; and, although Mulder was pleased to see that Scully was also thrown-- that she, too, did not expect the unexpected-- he was more agitated than amazed when the silent Enigma, in general too puzzled by the world to speak, slid a python grin across and down his mouth and replied with feral languor, “Probably something I ate.” 

And the car revved on and pounced smoothly forward, pulling almost too quickly away, as if it were repelled by the very town itself. 

Even the weird and fantastic had its limits. 

*****

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

Tagging @today-in-fic~

[lazaruspiss]

characters that make sense to be living in wayne manor without much if any explanation: bruce, alfred, damian, tim, cass